


On The Sunny Side Of The Street

by Bluestofsteel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Birthday, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 04:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17542760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestofsteel/pseuds/Bluestofsteel
Summary: Steve's eighteenth birthday is on the Fourth of July and a Saturday. So, of course, Bucky has big things planned.





	On The Sunny Side Of The Street

“What the hell is this?” 

Mrs. Rogers gave Bucky a glare — one he’d seen many time on Steve. He smiled sheepishly and closed the front door behind him. 

“Uh, dinner?” Steve said. 

“Egg drop soup? At five in the evening? On your _eighteenth birthday?_ ” Bucky shook his head in mock disappointment. “Come on, man, you didn’t really think I’d let you get away with that, did you?”

Of course he didn’t. Trust Bucky to come tearing into his own house like a whirlwind to tell him off. And to swear in front of his mother, but keep the scolding at bay with a single smile. 

“You can have that garbage later,” Bucky said, taking the spoon out of Steve’s hand and turning off the stove. “Your eighteenth is on a Saturday and the Fourth of July. I woulda killed for circumstances like that. We gotta go make the most of it!”

Steve looked back at his mother. 

“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll just heat the soup up when I get back from work.”

Bucky smiled and shoved Steve towards the door, blowing Mrs. Rogers a kiss goodbye before leaving. They walked down the rickety porch steps, ducking under the Walkers’ clothesline. 

“So,” he nudged Steve with his shoulder. “What’d you wanna do first? Vote? Buy a gun? Find some broad for you to marry?”

Steve snorted. He could barely get a girl to dance with him, never mind marry him. Besides, he couldn’t really think of a girl he wanted to marry. Maybe Mae West, but when your best friend was as amazing, as vivacious and fun as Bucky, everyone else faltered in comparison. 

Of course, he was gay on top of everything else. As if barely being able to make it up a flight of stairs and being just shy of 5’5 wasn’t enough. 

Bucky looked over at him, grinning. It was his way of letting Steve know he was only joking. “You get anything good for your birthday yet?”

“Yeah, actually,” Steve said. He took a silver pocketwatch from his trousers. “My mom said it used to belong to my dad.”

Bucky took the watch from him. He gently rubbed his thumb over the initials _J.S._ engraved on the cover. Then he opened it up, revealing an old photograph of a man and a woman outside a church. 

“Are these your parents?” he asked. 

Steve nodded. “On their wedding day.”

“Man,” Bucky muttered. “You look just like your dad.” After a moment, he added, “He could really pull off a suit.”

Was that a compliment to the tailor, or was Bucky hinting at something? Steve cleared his throat. “So, what do you have planned for tonight?” he asked. “Should I let my mother know I won’t make it back by morning?”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, handing him back the pocketwatch. “You’ll be home for the Sunday morning _Little Orphan Annie Hour_.”

“And I’m guessing the secrecy isn’t going anywhere.”

“Hey, show a little respect for the guy who planned your entire birthday extravaganza,” Bucky said. “You little punk.”

He threw an arm across Steve’s shoulders and pulled him in, purposely jolting him so that he stumbled. “First stop, the silver screen. They’re showing that new movie. The one based off H.G. Wells’ books.”

“Ah, Buck, you didn’t have to go spending your money on me like that.”

“I didn’t. Betty-Lou at the ticket booth covered the fare. She said to say thanks for getting that guy off her last week. You know, if you’re lookin’ for a broad to marry tonight . . .”

Steve chuckled. “I don’t think so. I mean, she’s a great girl, but I just couldn’t ever marry someone who was a Red Sox fan.”

Which was a massive lie. Steve likes to imagine that he isn’t shallow enough to not marry someone because of a sports team. Even if Lonny Frey _could_ run circles around Jimmie Foxx any day. 

Bucky clicked his tongue. “Too bad. Guess we’ll just have to keep searching.”

Steve managed to turn the conversation to baseball. A safe topic. It’d be a real challenge to bring up sore subjects when you’re debating batting stats over fielding percentage in terms of how determining how good of a player someone is. 

In fact, it fended off painful topics for a while. They kept up the argument until they were seated at the theatre. 

Steve hated how they had to dance around so much, now. But there was so much he didn’t want to think about. The economy wasn’t getting any better. He was starting art school in the fall, but his family was already in debt as it was. On top of all that, Germany seemed to be throwing perpetual tantrums. People feared another Great War. 

________________________

The movie wasn’t what Steve expected. Well, he didn’t know _what_ he expected, considering the story was created by H.G. Wells. It was about war. Eternal war, and disease, and at long last, prosperity, that only becomes tainted again by humanity’s mistakes. 

When it got to the part when the war has been going on for twenty years, Steve was starting to wish H.G. Wells could have incorporated a little bit more comedy into his work. He shifted in his seat, and his hands went to adjust his collar. 

Bucky glanced over at him. 

“You alright?” he whispered. 

Steve nodded, and tried to look like anyone else who was enjoying their evening at the cinema. What did that look like? He relaxed his face, and forced a small smile that was supposed to come off as unintentional. 

“Hey,” Bucky said, “you know, we don’t have to stay. There’s a lot more lined up for the night, if this movie’s givin’ you the creeps.”

“It’s alright,” Steve replied. “Besides, I want to find out what happens to Cabal.”

He seemed unconvinced. When Steve turned back to the screen, he could still feel Bucky’s gaze. A moment later, Bucky took hold of his hand. Steve looked down at where they rested in his lap, opened his mouth to say something, then immediately decided against it. He slunk down in his chair, so that the back could act as a headrest, and tried not to think about how Bucky’s calloused hands felt against his own, soft from being too weak for manual labour. 

He didn’t remember how the movie ended. Just the rush he got when Bucky rubbed his thumb across the back of Steve’s hand during the intense scenes. Or how his nails brushed against his thigh whenever one of them shifted. 

Before he knew it, the lights were coming back on. Steve yanked his hand away as the people in front of them started to stand up. 

He looked back to Bucky, who was still in his seat, fully expecting some clever remark about how he couldn’t even handle a science fiction movie without being coddled. But instead, Bucky was staring blankly ahead. Without making eye contact, he said, “So, uh, d’you really think we’ll have space travel by the 2000s?”

“I’ve heard people say it’ll happen in our lifetime.”

Bucky chuckled, but he still wouldn’t meet his gaze. 

Steve was hurt. He thought Bucky was better than this, than someone who’d brush off their best friend. After all, _he_ was the one to take his hand in the first place. 

The hoard of people milling down the aisle made their way to the exit. Bucky cleared his throat, and said, “You wanna head out? Next stop, Sunny’s bar.”

Steve smiled. He had to let Bucky know that his actions were appreciated — anything to avoid the dismissiveness. 

“Sure thing, Buck.”

Together, they stood up, and walked down the narrow row of seats. Bucky put his hand on the small of Steve’s back, keeping him steady. (“Maybe if you didn’t wear shoes twice your size, you wouldn’t stumble all over the place like a newborn deer.”). 

Steve glanced up at him, and at last, Bucky looked back. His cheeks were red. For a moment, pride swelled within Steve. Making such a cocksure flirt blush wasn’t an easy thing to do. 

The sun was setting when they stepped out of the stuffy theatre into the cool city air. Light shimmered like a diamond on the countless apartment windows. Steve itched for his sketchpad. 

They walked down the street in a comfortable silence. He could still feel the ghost of Bucky’s hand on his back. 

“Is Sunny’s the one by the corner-store or the one by the Buttermilk Channel?”

“Neither,” Bucky said. “It’s on Conover. I’m worried all the old places are starting to realize my ID’s a fake.”

“I’d love to see what happens when your old man finds out about that thing.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Forget my old man. What about my sister? I can hear her going on already. ‘First it’s drinking, then it’s drugs, and before you know it you’ll be sleeping on a bench in a Hooverville.’”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “A bench seems like a pretty nice setup.”

“Yeah. I could have you over anytime I want.”

“We’d have a trash can fire to keep warm.”

“You could draw caricatures of people when we need cash for _more_ booze and drugs.”

They stared at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. 

_________________________

Sunny’s was already crowded when they arrived. Steve recognized a couple of the customers from the luncheons he and his mother were sometimes invited to. They were veterans, probably hoping to drown out the sound of fireworks with alcohol and chatter. 

Bucky kept a hand on Steve’s shoulder as they plowed through the people crowded around the radio, listening to a Yankees game. He took them right up to the bar. 

Bucky ordered two of the cheapest beers on the menu, handing over his ID that incorrectly listed his date of birth as March 10th, 1915. 

“Sorry I can't get us anything better,” Bucky said. “I blew most of my cash a couple days ago. And there’s no way I’m letting the birthday boy buy his own drinks.”

Steve knew it was useless to argue. Plus, he couldn’t help but worry that if he always fought Bucky over who pays for what, their outings might stop altogether. 

They found a table for two in the back. When they sat down, Bucky rolled up his shirtsleeves and muttered something about the damned humidity. Steve tried not to gawk, even if there was a small voice in the back of his head mulling over how all that boxing at the Y was paying off. 

Bucky kept the beers coming. They talked about taking a trip to the New York Harbour so Steve could draw the Statue of Liberty, about a dog Bucky rescued from a dumpster last week, about if his sister would ever marry that guy Bucky hated. 

It wasn’t until the Yankees game finally ended (easy win, 5-0), and the crowd around the radio dissipated, that Steve realized Bucky hadn’t tried to find them any dames to hang around with. 

Bucky knocked back what was left of his fourth beer. 

“I think this’ll be my last,” he said. “We’ve still got more to do.”

Steve was still idly sipping on his second drink, and the room was already starting to sway. 

“You don’t want to find someone to dance with?” he asked. “Now that the game’s over, they’ll be playing music soon . . .”

“Not tonight, pal. This is your night.”

Bucky leaned back in his seat, his arm draped over the back. 

“That a new shirt?” he asked. 

Steve glanced at his chest, mostly to hide his surprises expression. He was wearing a light-blue button up, with a white diamond pattern that you could only see from close up. 

“Er, not really,” he replied. “My Aunt Joanne gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago. I finally grew into it.”

Bucky lunged forward, and slapped his hands on the table. Some of the people around them jumped at the noise. Steve included. 

“I remember that!” he exclaimed. “That was the year she made us watch her Scottish Terrier! What was his name again?”

“Beathan.” Steve scoffed. “That dog lives better than I do. He slept on a velvet pillow every night.”

“Remember when we took him for a walk, and the Robinsons’ Doberman ripped his stupid little sweater right off? I thought your aunt was gonna take him to the hospital or some shit.”

“Oh, man.” Steve rubbed at his eyes, chuckling deeply. “Now that was one situation you couldn’t worm your way out of with your Frank Sinatra shtick.”

“Frank Sinatra shtick?”

“You know. You wink. Flip your hair. Give ‘em that million-dollar smile. Everyone in a fifty-foot radius’ legs turn to jelly.”

Steve regretted saying that the instant the words left his mouth. Bucky cocked a grin and nodded to himself. Clearly, they went straight to his ego. 

“Fifty-foot radius, huh?” he said. “Yourself included?”

Steve scoffed for a second time. Because he had to. Because they were in public, and guys get him got killed for stuff like this. Not to mention, how it would eternally screw up his friendship with Bucky. 

“You wish.”

He prayed for an intervention. Something. Anything. A tidal wave. Canadians sieging the country on moose-back. 

For what felt like the first time in his life, his prayer was answered. 

Before Bucky could get out so much as a syllable of whatever clever remark he came up with, someone at the bar turned on the radio. 

They both froze for a moment, trying to identify the song. Steve was the first to figure it out. 

“ _On the Sunny Side of the Street_ ,” he said, snapping his fingers in realization. 

Bucky started to speak, but he was, again, interrupted. (Steve knew what he was going to say, anyways). (“Remember when Ms. White made the whole class sing this song in the eighth grade?”). Across the bar, someone was having a party of their own. Everyone at the longest table in the bar had broken out singing. A couple others joined them. 

Bucky grinned at Steve, and started singing along. His voice was a little off key, a little too loud, but no one seemed to care. 

Steve joined in once Bucky started slapping him on the back and gesturing to the other patrons, most of whom were now singing. 

_If I never had a cent,_  
_I’d be rich as Rockefeller,_  
_Gold dust at my feet,_  
_On the sunny side of the street_

And as Sunny’s bar continued to belt the lyrics, Steve smiled to himself at the irony of the situation. A bunch of haunted veterans and down on their luck kids, in the middle of the Great Depression, forgetting their misery for a moment and singing together about happiness and wealth. 

The song came to an end. Most of the people started right up again with the next one that came on, but Bucky got to his feet, Steve following suit. 

“We should head out,” he said, taking his wallet from his pocket. He left a couple bills on the bar counter on their way to the door. 

The sun was hanging even lower than when they left the theatre. If Steve turned the other way, the sky would be the familiar nighttime not-quite-black. Bucky walked to the curb and looked both ways. As if you couldn’t hear a car coming from a mile away. Steve reluctantly followed suit, the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge, above a storm drain. 

Without warning, Bucky took a firm hold of his shoulder, and used him as a sort of human plow, running across the road and onto the sidewalk on the opposite side. Steve wondered how much of this was the liquor, and how much was just Bucky being Bucky. 

“What the hell’re you doing?” Steve shouted. 

“We’re going to the sunny side of the street!” he replied. 

Just as unexpectedly as he started, Bucky stopped in his tracks, making Steve stumble. They were standing in the golden light of the sunset, where it peeked in from the large alleyway between two buildings. 

“And, y’know,” Bucky continued, “this is where the bus stop is.”

There were only two more destinations planned for the evening, Bucky said, when they were seated at the back of the bus. Someone was hosting a barbecue in the park, and they had to pick something up at Bucky’s house. 

“We don’t have enough cash for the fare to the park,” he said. “So we can stop by my place and walk the rest of the way.”

Steve wondered if he could make the walk to the park. Even if it was no more than a twenty minute walk from the Barnes’. The buildings they passed were out of focus. He should stop looking out the window — the combination of travel and alcohol was making him nauseous. 

Nevertheless, he was proud of himself for managing to keep the two beers down. 

Bucky was saying something. Steve wasn’t sure what. Not quite like a silent film, more like music being played over a montage. Only, instead of music, it was his stream of thoughts. He wondered what he did in his life that made him worthy of a friend like Bucky. Someone who’d blow all their money on him for his birthday, who’d bring extra firewood for his mother when he was sick, who’d put down the sofa cushions as a mattress during sleepovers, only to invite him on the bed, because it was big enough for two, anyways. 

That last one hadn’t happened in years. Nowadays, the only sleepovers they had were when one of them fell asleep at the other’s house. 

Sometimes, Steve imagined what it would be like to share a bed with Bucky again. Did Bucky’s hair still stand on end in the mornings, or was that something he’d outgrown, the same way they outgrew make-believe and afternoon soccer games? And what would it be like to wake up pressed against him, his face buried in the crook of Bucky’s neck?

The bus stopped at the end of Bucky’s street, and the boys got off there. 

Bucky scaled the front steps with surprising agility, considering the circumstances. He nearly tripped on his little sister’s jump rope that was left on the top step, and cursed under his breath about how she should’ve outgrown those things by now. 

It took Bucky a while to fish his keys out of his pocket. It took him even longer to fit the key in the keyhole. His hands quivered like someone with Shaking Palsy. 

A nearly three minutes passed before he got the door open. Steve counted on his new pocketwatch. 

“Is anybody home?” he asked Bucky. The house was uncharacteristically silent, apart from the _tick-tick-tick_ of the grandfather clock in the living room. 

“Nah. My old man got a hold of his buddy’s boat. They’re taking it out tonight.”

Steve snorted. “How much ass-kissing did that take?”

They were walking down the hallway that stretched right from the front door to the window that looked out on their practically nonexistent backyard. Bucky leaned on the doorjamb of his bedroom and replied, “Oh, man. You should’ve seen it. He’s had us mowing their lawn since Easter.”

Bucky disappeared in his room, and came back out a moment later with two parcels wrapped in newspaper. 

“Are . . . are those for me?” Steve asked. 

“No. They’re for Franklin Roosevelt. Of course they’re for you.”

Bucky thrust the packages at Steve’s stomach and walked past him, into the kitchen. He went in after him. They sat down at the table. Steve set the presents in front of him. 

“Which one should I open first?”

“We can save the best for last,” Bucky said, sliding the smaller, fatter of the parcels towards himself. 

The first present was a sketchbook. Nothing fancy, but it had plenty of sheets to draw on. Steve was immensely thankful for it, because he was about to fill up his last one. With that expensive cough syrup they’d had to buy last month, he knew it’d be a while before he could get another. 

“Thanks, Buck. This is--”

“Boring. Open the next one.”

Steve took the second parcel from him. Before opening it, he felt the edges carefully. Then he held it up to his ear and shook it. Whatever was inside rattled ever so slightly. 

He tore away at the paper, revealing a box of twelve Derwent drawing pencils. 

“Those’re the ones we saw in Queens a few months ago,” Bucky said. He was worrying his lip between his teeth. “They’re kinda the reason I had to treat you to cheap beer. Each one has different graphite, whatever the hell that means. And I . . . I hope they’re good. I mean, I assume they’re good, from the way you were staring at them, but . . .”

Steve jumped out of his seat to tackle Bucky in a hug, nearly knocking over both the kitchen table and Bucky’s chair. 

“Thank you!” he said into his neck. 

Bucky’s arms gradually came up to wrap around Steve. He took so long, Steve wondered if he’d done something wrong. But then he held him, tight. He could feel Bucky’s muscles against his chest. 

They pulled apart a moment later. For a second, Bucky had that same expression that he did leaving the theatre — distant. Cold. Unfamiliar. Like he had suddenly been pulled deep into his own mind. Thankfully, that expression disappeared just as quickly as it had come on. 

“So, uh, d’you wanna head out?” Steve asked. 

“Sure. You can leave the gifts here, if you like.”

________________________

Steve had known what the last event of the night was all day. The two had had this tradition since they were twelve years old. 

Before the park gates were even in sight, they could tell the festivities were already underway. Children were screaming. The smell of barbecued hot dogs wafted their way. (Which was still exciting, even though no one could ever afford to bring enough buns).

The park was small. Just a playground, a small field, and some trees. But it was nestled on top of a hill, facing west. Again, Steve and Bucky saw a different type of sunset. Purples and dark blues, with smudges of orange on the horizon. 

They made the rounds, chatting with their neighbours as they filled their plates with hot dogs, dry cake, and baked beans. Bucky got them two cups of what Steve assumed was once plain old punch, that smells like it could fuel a fighter jet. 

On the slope of the hill, just far enough that the kids wouldn’t bug them, Steve and Bucky sat facing each other, the plates and cups on the ground between them. 

Steve waited. 

He waited for the first firework to go off, filling the entire sky and making him jump, despite his best efforts to stay calm. 

He waited for Bucky to say what he had said every year since they were kids. 

“This is all for you, buddy.”

Of course, now he’s added, “A birthday candle from the entire fucking city.”

“A candle I can’t blow out.”

“A candle everyone stops to look at.”

In this moment, Steve thought everything might be alright. Maybe the booze would work on his side, and the fireworks, and the birthday luck. He could tell Bucky how he felt. Possibly even steal a kiss. Then, who knew? They could move away, and be together, even if they’d still have to hide it. 

Then Steve glanced at Bucky, who already had his eyes on him. That was all it took to bring him back to reality. He couldn’t do it. Not with Bucky staring at him like that. It was ridiculous to even think things would work out with them. 

The firework show seemed to get shorter and shorter every year. Worse and worse economy, Steve figured. How long would it be before they were cancelled altogether?

He didn’t feel much like talking on the way home. Bucky talked enough for the both of them. 

When they finally got back to his house, later than they’d come home all year, his mother was already asleep. Steve could see her through her open bedroom window, peaceful in the light of the lamp that she always kept on. She told him once that it became a habit when she would sit up all night, when his father was still MIA. Before she found out he was gone, choked to death by mustard gas. 

“You wanna head in?” Bucky asked. 

“Nah. We can stay out here a little longer. I don’t want to say goodbye yet.”

Steve looked around for a crate or something to sit on. He could hear Bucky kicking at the gravel path behind him. 

“You know, unless some demented beavers came by since the last time I was in your backyard, there’s always the treehouse,” Bucky said. 

“Jesus.” Steve smiled to himself. “We haven’t been up there in, what, two years?”

“I’m not sure. When did we stop trying to hide our cigarettes?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Come on. D’you really think we ever had our folks fooled?”

In the summer of ‘29, Steve and Bucky dedicated their entire break to building a treehouse in the old oak tree behind the Rogerses’ house. From the ages of eleven to sixteen, if they weren’t finding fights in an alley, or getting into trouble downtown, they were holed up there with boxes full of soda, cigarettes, and skin magazines. 

Steve never liked those magazines. But, to this day, he still hasn’t gotten over the shock from when he realized Bucky had stopped tearing out the pinup girls. 

They both climbed up the ladder (evidently, with some difficulty, thanks to the booze) and sat cross-legged on the worn, dirty floor. 

A thick layer of dust coated every surface. Leaves were caked on the ground, and cobwebs hung in every corner. Steve hated to think of how many spiders there must be up here. 

Bucky dragged over the nearest box, a large crate they took from the docks. He rummaged inside, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. 

“I thought so,” he muttered to himself as he opened them up. He stuck two between his lips, lit them both, and handed one to Steve. 

Who definitely wasn’t staring. 

Or blushing. 

He put the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled deeply, letting his head fall back against the wall. Then he sat back up again, because spiders, and mold, and beetles. The treehouse was so dark, so obviously abandoned that Steve hardly recognized it as the place he once thought of as a second home. Practically overnight, he and Bucky had outgrown it. Honestly, that scared him. Where would he be in five years’ time? In ten? Would all of Brooklyn one day become a distant memory, a place he’d never return to?

A cool gust of wind blew through the room. Steve shivered so hard that his teeth chattered. Bucky, who had been picking at his fingernails, looked up, and said, “Don’t tell me you’re cold. It’s, like, seventy degrees.”

“Seventy degrees, with a breeze, and no sun. That’s enough to make anyone cold.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Well, you’re just a freak of nature.”

Bucky smiled. “You don’t mean that.”

Then he did something that Steve never would have expected. Something that sent his brain into shutdown, only for a stream of thoughts to hit him so hard he could feel a headache lacing at his temples. 

In one, swift movement, Bucky shifted so that he was sitting next to Steve, draped an arm over his shoulders, and pulled him into his chest. He rubbed small circles just below Steve’s shoulder. 

The voices in his head were going off all at once, arguing like two lawyers in a courtroom. 

_Platonic friends don’t do this._

_Bucky’s a touchy guy!_

_Touchy with girls on the dance floor. Touchy with blondes on dates._

_He’s just being protective._

_You know, you_ are _a blond._

Eventually, Steve couldn’t take it anymore. Because he was so full of love. And want. Not want. Need. 

Steve turned his gaze to Bucky, only to find he was already looking down at him. 

“Buck—”

“Steve, I . . .” Bucky raised his hand, only to lower it again. Then he got that determined look on his face. The kind he had on last month, stepping into the ring at his boxing final. “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

Steve nodded his head so gently he was afraid Bucky wouldn’t notice. He didn’t want to scare him off with sharp movements. He ground his cigarette on the floor, and tossed it aside. Bucky’s free hand found its way to Steve’s jaw, and he slowly, _slowly_ started leaning towards him. 

He didn’t know where to look. Bucky’s eyes, steel grey eclipsed by dilated pupils? His lips, that were slowly falling open as they approached his own?

So Steve decided not to look anywhere. He closed his eyes, just moments before their lips brushed together. 

Bucky seemed to hesitate, so Steve, still with his eyes closed, reached for the back of Bucky’s head and pulled him back in. 

He had no idea if he was doing this right. The only person Steve had ever kissed before was Mary Aiken, and that was on a dare in sophomore year. But with Bucky, it was different. Nicer. 

Maybe because Bucky was a guy. Or because Bucky could kiss just as well as he could smile, and flirt, and box. He kept nipping Steve’s lip and moving his jaw up and down. 

Then Steve took a fistful of Bucky’s shirt, and pushed him backwards. 

“Buck, listen . . . we gotta talk about this. ‘Cause I’m getting some mixed signals, here.”

Bucky let go of Steve’s jaw and pressed the back of his hand to his lips. They were both panting. His cigarette was still hanging from his fingers. He smushed it against the wall and tossed it next to Steve’s.

“What’d you mean?” Bucky said. “I thought I was being pretty obvious.”

“All night, you’ve been breaking boundaries, then pushing me away. At the-at the movies, you _held my hand_. You’ve never done that before. And you hugged me back at your place.”

“We’ve hugged before.”

“Not like that,” Steve said. “You hugged me like you’d never get the chance to touch me again. We need to straighten this out. I can’t help but wonder how much of this is you and how much of this is the booze.”

Bucky took Steve’s right hand between his and held it palm-side-up, running his thumbs over the creases. “This is all me. Now, the confidence, I without a doubt owe to the booze.”

Steve smiled, warmly, gently. Because this was Bucky, and Bucky was familiar, and happy, and his best friend. 

“The Great James Buchanan Barnes, getting all shy over some puny punk.”

“I’m not shy, I’m just--”

“Scared?” 

“ _Terrified_ ,” Bucky said. “I’ve been waiting to do this since we were fourteen.” 

Steve pointed to himself. “Fourth grade. You know nothing about pining, my friend.”

Bucky brought a hand up to Steve’s neck, and pulled him in so that their foreheads were touching.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” he asked. “I mean, we’ll have to keep it quiet. You know how hard it can be, for people like us.”

“And what exactly are we?”

Bucky’s eyes darted down to Steve’s nose. “I . . . I don’t know.” He laughed. The kind that shouldn’t count as a laugh, because it’s really more of a sharp breath. “Not a clue. Whatever you want us to be, I guess.”

Steve kept looking into Bucky’s eyes. He hoped it was coming across as comforting, and not freaky. 

“I just want us to be happy,” he said. “And I’m not gonna be happy with anyone else.”

_________________________

“Try not to break your neck on the way back.”

They were standing on either side of the dilapidated fence in Steve’s front yard, their fingers pressed together in the space between boards. It was completely silent, except for their voices. Everyone in the area was either asleep or out celebrating. 

“I’ve walked home in worse states than this,” Bucky replied. 

“See, that confidence is what’s gonna get your neck broken.”

Bucky smiled fondly, then looped his index finger through the fence, catching Steve’s thumb. He gave it a squeeze. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You know, there’s a boat race at the beach tomorrow.”

“And an old, secluded dock about a quarter-mile from there.”

Steve rolled his eyes and pushed Bucky’s fingers back to his side of the fence. “Alright, Casanova, you should head off. Before my mother wakes up and hears us.”

Bucky took a few steps backwards. “I think she’s already suspicious,” he said, before turning around and heading for the street. 

Steve climbed up his front steps. When he reached the top, he looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was lit up by a streetlight, and singing,

 

 _If I never had a cent,_  
_I’d be rich as Rockefeller,_  
_Gold dust at my feet,_  
_On the sunny side of the street_


End file.
